


an ending

by meritmut



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/F, Porn Battle, Porn Battle XIV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 07:36:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meritmut/pseuds/meritmut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Porn Battle XIV.</p><p>Prompts: "yours" and "heartbeat"</p>
            </blockquote>





	an ending

Did Visenya miss her homeland, when she rode across the sea to claim a new one with her family? It's something Elia's wondered more than once, when Rhaegar leaves her side or her Dornish ladies bore her with their slowly-trivialising minds - leeched of their former vivacity by the repressive attitude of the Westerosi capital. On those days Elia longs for her brothers, to ride with them under the fierce sun, white as bones, that can surely bear no kinship to this watery yellow thing that sits in the sky above the Red Keep, or to lie with her closest friend beneath a sweet summer night and let the scents of salt and saffron and jasmine slip over her skin as softly as Ash's own fingers.

The jasmine had been perfume, dabbed into every curve of Ashara's supple body on a morning and lingering on Elia's clothes by evenfall. Sometimes they would return to Sunspear in the twilight giggling and hoping that no one would notice that the princess was wearing her handmaiden's tunic. Sometimes they'd do it deliberately and it was only ever Oberyn who smirked at the sight of them in each other's garb.

They can't play games like that now, Elia thinks with a touch of remorse. Every courtier and their bloody horse pay attention to what gaudy luxuries the prince's fiancée drapes herself in.

Or (to be pedantic, as Ashara always is), what the prince's fiancée’s favourite handmaiden takes it upon herself to un-drape from her mistress and cast onto the floor now. Ashara's hands are smooth and warm as summer rainfall on skin as she pulls Elia close, bends to follow the curve of her throat with slow kisses.

"We can't do this," she breathes into Elia's shoulder.

"No," Elia sighs, "We never could."

"Never could help ourselves, you mean."

Her laughter is a melodic ripple – a seductive song that twists its way between Elia’s ribs and ignites deep beneath her skin in a conflagration of desire as Ashara draws her towards the bed that will, for only three nights more, see an unwed maid beneath its sheets. After that Elia will be a bride and a Targaryen princess, and grace the halls of Sunspear never more. Ashara tugs Elia close to claim her red mouth with her own, and lowers the both of them to the bed.

Born a princess and a lady respectively, neither of them had ever dreamed that one day they would become thieves. And yet what other name can be given to the moments they snatch from the night to be together, but theft? When Ashara flattens her slender self against Elia’s soft form and claims kisses from those lips, is she not stealing each one from Rhaegar?

 _Yes_ , something cries out within Elia, _we will become thieves of our own pleasures_ , but something else cries louder and it’s always in Ashara’s voice.

Well, not always. Sometimes it’s her own voice – sometimes the maid of Starfall gets it into her head to take risks, to pleasure Elia in ways that have the princess moaning loud enough to make a septa blush until one or the other has to clamp their hand across her mouth to silence her, and leave her shaking and slick with sweat until Ashara completes her tender ministrations. Ashara loves to taunt, to force each sound from Elia’s shivering throat with a roll of her hips and a hungry smile while she watches her mistress’ lips tremble, her eyes widen in the dizzying rush of orgasm, but today her touch is flavoured with finality.

There’s an edge of hunger to her kisses as they fall upon Elia’s skin, echoed in the way Elia tangles her fingers in Ashara’s endless tumbles of dark hair – dark as the last few moments of sunset over the sea, a glimmer of bronze to the charcoal darkness that bleeds across the arcing bowl of the sky. Ashara is the heavens above, the gentle night and the commanding light of the stars themselves in her amethystine eyes. Her fingers, curving into the sweetest spaces between Elia and her own blind need, are perfect and cruel because each touch is one dizzying caress closer to the last.

"And how could I help it?" murmurs Ashara in that soft voice of hers that makes every word spoken a prayer. "I was always taught to take what is mine and you..." she traces her fingertips across the flat of Elia’s bare stomach "...are no one else's. Not yet. Tell me, princess, for whom does your heart flutter so?"

Elia laughs again, shaking her head at the understatement and bucking her hips so that Ashara’s balance wavers and she can roll them both over. Once perched above her lover she lowers to brush her lips over the place where, if she laid her hand flat, she could feel Ashara’s heart pounding, "Oh, Ash, it's for you that it _beats._ "

The maid of Starfall rises up on her elbows to seize Elia’s mouth once more, so fierce – so consumed by the knowledge that their time as lovers is ending – that her teeth clatter roughly against Elia’s own and for a moment, when her eyes fly open in shock, Elia has a vision of tears in the other’s violet gaze. But Ashara never cries, not where she might be seen.

And Ashara does not miss Dorne like Elia does, because for her Elia _is_ Dorne. Elia is the sun and the warm wind and the serpentine curve of the land itself. Elia Martell is hers, and Elia is home.


End file.
